A FoxGlove Fairy Tale
by Nieriel Sharde
Summary: Many, many years after Erik has died Christine is happy in her comepletely Erikless existance. She seems to have comepletely forgotten all about him. Then, one day day and beautiful, mysterious stranger shows up on their doorstep with a strange request.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I do not own Christine, Raoul or Erik.

A/N: This takes place the day Raoul goes to the underground lake to retrieve Christine after Christine left to keep the promise that she'd see him the day before her wedding. As stated, Erik tells Christine he wishes her to leave so he may "Die in peace." This statement wounds Christine deeply, although she doesn't acknowledge it. It also leaves her bearing a deep resentment and bitterness towards Erik that, Christine herself does not even notice.

Prologue

Christine was trembling when she walked from the room to leave with Raoul. She turned away from him for a moment to gather her thoughts and feelings. Hastily she swiped at her face, knowing she would never be able to rid her self of the pathways her tears had wrecked havoc on her face . . . And her heart.

If only she had known . . . If only . . . She shook her head. It was all over now. Erik was dying and wished her to be gone. He wished to die in peace . . . To die in peace, that was what he told her and it had frightened her more than anything else she had ever heard from him. She hadn't meant for it to end like this. Erik, alone, dying in pain of both the body and the soul. Though she had promised her soul to him, she realized, shortly after the . . . Would it be called a wedding? She wasn't very sure anymore.

She did, however, know that all she had said and done in her childish fear and naivety had created a wound not even her love for Erik could heal. Another tear slipped silently down her cheek and unlike the others, she let it fall.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I never meant to hurt you, my angel of music. Forgive me. I love you . . . Erik." Even as she felt her soul tearing itself in two over her guilt a sense of cheerless peace descended upon her, for she knew, even though he lay on his death bed, drawing his last breaths, three closed doors away Erik had heard her. She took a deep breath and regained her composure only to realize Raoul had placed a questioning and worried hand on her shoulder.

"I'm fine," She said in a voice sterner than she meant. "I just wish to go . . . Back to our house." She originally had meant home, but then she had realized she didn't have much a home anywhere. Her home was lying on a bed waiting for death's sweet mercy to release him from the life he had known. She knew that she would find no other home as long as she lived. She would be content with Raoul at her small country house in England. Not happy, but content. She hoped she could live with that. She hoped Raoul could live with that. She knew he'd worry about her. Oh why did she have to get things so muddled? She loved Raoul, she did but . . . She shook her head. There couldn't be any buts anymore. Erik would be dead within the next day and Raoul would live on. She knew his happiness depended on her and it seemed like a heavy load to carry, but she would be grateful, for Raoul's load would be twice as heavy. And yet . . . Somehow he was still prepared to live with The Phantom's ghost as a houseguest. She nodded. She was grateful and she would try to be the person Erik and her father had seen in her. She would be dutiful, kind and grateful. If not for Raoul, then for Erik. He had gone through too much to make sure she wouldn't end up alone.

She turned towards Raoul, wondering if he would care that the ring on her finger was not the one he placed there many months ago. She looked at him sadly, trying to tell him, wordlessly, how important it was for her to wear the ring from then on. He tensed slightly, seeing the ring and understanding her silent question. He looked away. She was asking another great burden of him and she felt callous and ungrateful. This, however, seemed more important to her. She reached out and laid her palm on his cheek gently, turning him to look at her. Her eyes pleaded with him. He took her hand and squeezed it once in assent before leading her away from the chaotic bleakness of Erik's destroyed underground palace. She closed her eyes and let herself pulled through the endless night to the light of day.

If only she had known . . . If only . . .


	2. Mirror Mirror on the Wall

Disclaimer: I do not own Christine, Erik, or Raoul. Naomi, however, is of my own creation.

A/N: Enter the mysterious stranger! Expect trouble. Though not from who you think. The entering of Naomi foretells doom to Christine and Raoul. As you might have expected, this will not be a very happy fairy tale.

If you find the name Lydia within all the fray don't mind it, I changed her name at the last minute. Lydia didn't quite suite her like I wanted it to. Naomi is much, much better. If you do spot a Lydia will you please point it out to me? Thanks

News:

I'll be re-doing the whole story basically. Thank you for all that have reviewed with suggestions, if you're still watching the story, I don't know why, but thanks, it'll pay off, I'll have a new piece up again soon.

Erik left me in all his ghost-like ways for a time to plague someone else with his awe-inspiring, persistent presence, but he's back in my life now. I've gotten some new insight on how I want to portray him and how Christine's relationship with Raoul should be seen. The next chapter got deleted because I'll probably end up just re-writing it. I've found its not nearly up to scratch and I wouldn't want to make my muse angry by keeping it that way out of ignorance of what to do next. I'll figure it out. I think I'll keep the dream in, but it'll change, after all, it a bit important in the foreshadowing prospect as well as our insight into what Christine represses. Go get your dream dictionaries!

I've made a few minor changes here and there on this one just for editing's sake. I've also fixed some grammatical errors I didn't find after the first few times of reading through it.

**Please Note**: the timeframe has changed. The original timeframe didn't suit the story well enough.

Enjoy:

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

Nearly a decade later a small pale hand knocked on the cozy cottage's door. Christine started, she had not been expecting visitors that day. She looked over at Raoul who was frowning. Everyone in the area knew they discouraged callers who came at random. Christine sighed as the knock came again, this time louder and more urgent. She set her book down and walked over to the door.

_Oh my, _Christine thought, _but isn't she beautiful. _Christine had always know she was beautiful, but here, in front of this dark-haired, Emerald-eyed stranger she didn't feel the least bit attractive, in fact, she felt just the opposite. She noted the girl's ebony hair and pale skin. _She could be Snow White. Mirror, Mirror,_ She though grimly, _never have I been jealous of another because of their looks, I will not start now!_

This beautiful stranger carried herself with a grace that reminded Christine of Erik, and a confidence that did not. It almost seemed as if the girl knew that her beauty was ethereal and god-like. With her air of confidence came and air of mystery and exoticness. Her eyes held a hint of mischief, much sadness and Christine was quite surprised to see, a carefully controlled anger. Christine started when the girl made a noise of impatience and quickly took her hand, shaking it. The girl glared at her for a minute before asking in a voice that was also . . . Unearthly (_like Erik's, _Christine thought), "May I come in? I have much I wish to discuss with you Mademoiselle Daae or is it Madame de Chagny, as I suspect?"

The girl waited a moment before continuing , "Well, of course it would be de Chagny, by now . . . Yes . . . silly me. Unless of course you've married someone else?"

"No, you're quite right," Christine answered, suspiciously. No one in the area, or even the country had known her maiden name. She had never given it out and wasn't sure why. She continued slowly, "I am Christine de Chagny . . . How may I help you?"

"I am Naomi . . ." Christine noted that Naomi hesitated after her first name. She realized the girl, for whatever reasons would not list her last name. "May I come in? As I said, we have much to speak of."

Naomi did not wait for an answer before walking through the doorway and into the parlor. Christine followed and then came of in front of her when Naomi stopped in the doorway of the parlor, staring at the piano in the corner. There was a smile of longing in her eyes as she gazed that piano.

"Do you play?" Christine asked.

"Sometimes, "The girl replied with a fierce longing. "If I work hard enough playing is my reward. In it I find a joy like none other."

"Would you like to play ours? Not many people here in town play and it seems it is manly used to collect dust." Christine said. "I would love to hear you."

The girl shook her head, but continued to stare at the instrument with longing, "I shouldn't."

Christine looked down to see the girl's fingers twitching. She smiled at her sympathetically, "I insist."

"Very well," the girl said as she sat down on the piano bench with eager flourish. Without taking out any sheet music she began to play. It was a slow song, mournful with an underlying message of hope. It was beautiful. It did not seem possible that such . . . Passion could come from a girl so young. It seemed even more impossible that it could be communicated through music. She had never heard anything like it.

"Who taught you to play like that?" Christine asked, breathless and astonished. She realized she was staring at the girl incredulously and looked away quickly, not wishing the girl to feel like a freak on display.

The sad smile appeared in Naomi's eyes again as she said, "My father."

With a start, Christine realized Raoul was in the room. He seemed to be staring, transfixed at Naomi.

_So, I am not the only one who notices her beauty,_ Christine thought sullenly. She shook her head at herself. Wasn't she past petty jealousy? But then again . . . Raoul had never looked at another female that way, except herself. She sighed, irritated. She would just have to deal with it. She was not going to remove the girl from her home until she had said what she came to say.

Naomi stared unabashedly at Christine, studying everything about her, trying to judge the woman within. _She really is quite beautiful. Just like he said she was, even after all these years,_ she thought resentfully_. I wish her husband would stop staring at me. It's making me uncomfortable. Oh why did I agree to come here? All I'm going to achieve is causing myself more pain than I've already experienced. If I tell her the truth . . . she'll do as she has always done and I'll end up spurned, again._

"You wish to know why I'm here, do you not?" Naomi asked, deciding her loyalties lay with her father. She would do his bidding, if only for the act that she loved him. At Christine's nod, she continued, "My father wishes to see you. He is . . . In need of your presence."

Christine's brow creased in confusion, "But I surely do not know your father! I do not know you! How can I know your father?"

"Trust me, Madame, you know my father. He speaks of you . . . often." Naomi replied, a underlying current of _something_ that Christine couldn't identify.

"Where are you from? Christine asked, confused by the mere appearance of the girl, "What is his name?"

"His name . . . I am not sure. He is simply . . . Father." Naomi said, frowning a bit, "I never cared to ask his name. I am from Persia, however, I live in Paris as does my father."

_Erik!_ Christine's heart jumped. She shook her head. Erik was dead. It could have been anyone of her admirers in Paris from when she worked in the Opera house or it could be one of the managers or even another childhood sweetheart . . . Well, the possibilities were endless. Why, then, did she still think, even after the knowledge that he was dead, think that Erik had sent for her? _Hope . . ._ she thought dully, _what it can do to a heart._

"He wishes for you see him at once." Naomi said. Did Christine detect a hint of guarded resentfulness in the girl's tone? "He is . . .very ill," Naomi's voice shook sadly on the last word. "He wished . . . To see you one last time."

Christine's confusion escalated. What type of final wish was that? Who would wish to see her? Who loved her that much? She thought of Erik, sadly and shook her head. He was dead, she had seen him that night. He had been glad to die. He had no will left to live, not only that, but he had been weak, very weak. Not even he could have survived that night. Not even if he had wanted to!

"He also requested . . ." She hesitated and then shook her head, "No matter . . . We'll get to it when we get there, hm?"

_I must be out of my mind,_ she thought as she replied with a sigh, "Alright, I'll go. If only to see you back safely. What kind of father sends a young girl into another country with no escort?"

"One that knows that girl can take care of herself." Naomi replied with a wry tone Christine didn't understand. "I do not want to waste much time in this country, it seems very . . . Crude, compared to what I am used to."

Christine turned to Raoul, he was no longer staring at Naomi but glaring at the floor, though discreetly. Christine recognized that look. It was the look he wore whenever he was angry with Christine, but wished not to make a scene in front of guests. She sighed, anticipating the fight that would come later, once Naomi had left for a hotel. She walked over to Raoul and said, "I know that look."

He sighed and shrugged, "It makes no sense, and I don't like it."

"What could it hurt?" Christine asked, "The girl seems adamant to please her father and would likely be crushed if I refuse, besides who am I to deny a man's dying wish?"

"I know why you wish to go." He said, "_Erik is dead,_ Christine. You've told me yourself many times. I . . . This man could be dangerous. I don't wish you to get hurt."

"The man won't hurt me in front of his daughter." She said, scanning the room for Naomi. She was surprised to find her nowhere insight, having left discreetly the moment Christine had turned to talk to Raoul. Christine walked over to the piano to find a note telling her to meet Naomi at a local inn early the next morning. She shook her head a bit. The girl was a little strange and more than slightly mysterious, yet, somehow Christine trusted her. She sighed, well whoever this mysterious man her father was, she would meet him, Raoul's approval or not. She couldn't explain it, but she felt as if this was something important. Something she needed to do.

Across town Naomi tried to organize her scattered thoughts. After many hours of pacing she sunk to the floor and drew her knees up to her chest. Why did her have to ask this of her? Why couldn't he have sent someone else? He knew how much pain he had caused her through Christine. Why did he have to send her on this task? It hurt her more than the fact that he loved (and always had) Christine more. He was normally so protective of her. Refusing to let her experience anything for fear that she'd be hurt. But he had sent her on this great task and on this journey . . . And to what end? She had now looked upon Christine's gentle beauty, so unlike her own looks. Christine light, beautiful, with everything where it should be, herself dark, plain and . . . Odd. Father had always called her exotic and mysterious, secretly she knew he was telling her that she wasn't beautiful as so many seemed to think. Their opinions didn't matter. Her father knew of beauty. He created it, nurtured it, craved it. Never once had he called her beautiful, never once had he called her pretty, never once had he complimented her looks. She was just exotic . . . Mysterious . . . Dark. She shook her head. She would never compare to Christine. She knew that.

She felt a tear slip down her cheek. She had been the perfect daughter, always listening, never rebellious. She was smart, she learned easily and she had more than enough talent for his favorite thing - music. She knew she was talented. She might not have known, but Father had complimented her a few times. It was enough for her to know that she truly was talented. A natural, as some might say. She was devoted. She sang to him every night and when she was unable she would read or paint for him. She loved him so much! Why couldn't he love her back, she had often wondered sadly. He rarely looked at her, and never touched her. Even when her fiancé had died and she was in great need of arms to hold her, he did not touch her. She never understood why he didn't love her. And, yet, as much as his lack of affection for her hurt her, she stayed. Perhaps because she sensed he was lonely. He was so sad . . . All she wanted was him to be happy, so she did what she could to make him happy. Somehow, though, it wasn't enough. She had even asked him, once after a particularly heart-trending day, why it was he didn't love her. He had not said anything after the question, and she did not hope it was shock that was keeping him from speaking. She knew he was angry with for her asking. She left the room moments after she had blurted out the question, in tears. She ran to her hiding spot and sobbed, broken-hearted for hours. As clever as her father had been he had never found that small space that she made her private refuge when the day grew too emotionally taxing. He called out her name over and over for a long while, perhaps two or three hours before giving up, having lost his voice. Later, when she met him for dinner he had started to speak of the incident. She cut him off saying, very coldly, that she just wished to forget it ever happened. He pressed on, but she continued to cut him off, growing colder and more furious each time. So he didn't think she deserved an explanation for the way he snubbed her love. She didn't want to hear his excuses. It was the only time he had cause to be angry with her. It was the only time she had been less than adoring of him.


End file.
